


Bread and Circuses

by lesbianophelia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hijacked!Peeta, Oneshot, canon AU, mockingjay au, more a drabble than anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I freeze in my tracks, sick at the idea of what he’s suggesting. Somehow staging some perverse wedding between Peeta and me. I haven’t been able to face that one-way glass since I’ve been back and, at my own request, only get updates about Peeta’s condition from Haymitch. He speaks very little about it. Different techniques are being tried. There will never truly be a way to cure him. And now they want me to marry Peeta for a propo? </p><p>- Mockingjay, chapter sixteen. </p><p>An AU that grabbed me and wouldn't let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bread and Circuses

**Author's Note:**

> endless love to Gentlemama for helping me to plan this story.

_“So that’s what the districts are for. To provide the bread and circuses.”_  
  
“Yes. And as long as that kept rolling in, the Capitol could control its little empire. Right now, it can provide neither, at least at the standard the people are accustomed to,” says Plutarch. “We have the food and I’m about to orchestrate an entertainment propo that’s sure to be popular. After all, everybody loves a wedding.”  
  
I freeze in my tracks, sick at the idea of what he’s suggesting. Somehow staging some perverse wedding between Peeta and me. I haven’t been able to face that one-way glass since I’ve been back and, at my own request, only get updates about Peeta’s condition from Haymitch. He speaks very little about it. Different techniques are being tried. There will never truly be a way to cure him. And now they want me to marry Peeta for a propo?  
  
\- Mockingjay, chapter sixteen. 

 

 

She has to pick the suit that Peeta is going to wear. Of _course_ , she has to pick it. They don’t trust Peeta enough to grant him permission to leave the hospital, let alone to get on a hovercraft and go back to District Twelve. Not to mention the fact that having him anywhere near Katniss when he sees the destruction of twelve – of his _home_ would be a disaster, probably. Her throat aches just thinking about Peeta having another _setback_ around her. Would she even survive it, now that he’s supposedly gained some of his weight back?  
  
She wouldn’t know. She hasn’t seen him since they got back from Two. But Haymitch claims that he’s _looking better, if nothing else_. Maybe that should have made Katniss feel better, but the implication that his mind was still . . . _hijacked_ made Katniss feel sick.    
  
Gale offered to help. To go to Peeta’s house himself and get the suit. She refuses. Says that Plutarch sent her for a reason. That’s not true, exactly. Plutarch never said that it was up to her to take care of the fashion decisions. The prep team even came along. Ready to take care of all of this. But she doesn’t want to allow anyone else into Peeta’s house. So she goes alone.  It’s not like they can tell her that she can’t take care of this.

Not when they’ve only barely managed to convince her she doesn’t have a choice in whether or not she . . . whether or not she does this. Whether or not she marries Peeta Mellark. She finds her dress, first. A green dress from the Victory Tour that’s more than long enough to double as the sort of dress that Plutarch will want for his propo. It’s not white, but she pretended not to notice the gauzy white one she wore in the Capitol. That might trigger him, seeing something that they’d use to _hijack_ him. She can’t remember anything that happened in Five, where she wore the dress. Half of her wants to wear the pretty orange frock – if only to see whether or not he remembers that it’s his favorite color – only, someone _died_ because of her, back in District Eleven. He probably remembers that. She certainly does.  
  
She tries to think about District Five, but she can’t remember anything other than the pretty green dress Cinna made. And Peeta, crawling into her bed that night. Holding her when the nightmares got too bad. Strong arms comforting her. She doesn’t want to wear that dress. Doesn’t want to have a wedding, let alone a wedding dress that’s just going to remind her of everything that _could_ have been, if they hadn’t hijacked him. Octavia insists it’s the best choice, though, so she agrees to wear it. Anything to get out of her house.  
  
Of course, Peeta’s house is the next stop. So that doesn’t help very much. Not when she heads up his stairs and into his room. When she sees that his bed isn’t made. Something about the messy sheets makes her eyes sting with tears. It’s so easy to picture him sleeping there, the morning of the reaping. Or trying to sleep, at least. Broad shouldered. Stocky and safe and _whole_. She presses her hand against her mouth, trying to banish the image of the Peeta that’s waiting for her in District Thirteen. To replace him with the Peeta in her mind.  
  
  
His closet is filled with the sort of clothing he wore before the Quell. Comfortable, soft shirts and pants that you can just barely tell were made in the Capitol. She swipes an armful of the hangers down and stuffs them into her bag. She’s not sure why. He won’t want them, not from her. Won’t even really be allowed to wear them. There are no suits in his closet. She resists the urge to sink down. To cover herself in his clothing and fall asleep. To try to stay here until they forget about her. Of course, that’s not how it works. They won’t forget about her. A voice comes through the earpiece, though, reminding her that they only have a limited amount of time. So she moves on.  
  
She finds his suits in the hall closet. Picks the first one her fingers find. All of the suits from the Victory Tour looked the same, essentially. And it doesn’t matter very much, what Peeta looks like during the wedding. The important thing is how Plutarch will accessorize his handcuffs.

  
She tries to push the thought away. Wanders through his house in the Victor’s Village. Stops to look at his paintings. The lines are so steady. So unlike anything he could make now, with his shaking hands. Bringing the canvases would be pointless. And easily discovered. She finds his sketchbooks instead. And his pencils and his paints. Finds the biggest, emptiest books. And a couple that are full, too. She has to choose between some of the shirts and some of the remnants of Peeta. Of her old Peeta.  
  
She’s not sure if they’re for him or for her.  
  
She chooses the sketchbooks.

\---  
  
He isn’t handcuffed the day of the _wedding_. It’s the first time she’s seen him since they got back from District Two, but rather than screaming and delusional, he seems . . . too calm, almost. He stands a few feet from her – the closest they’ve been since he tried to strangle her – and sways from side to side while Plutarch gives them information about the propo. About the carefully selected guests and how the children from District Thirteen will be singing the toasting song.  
  
When Peeta stumbles – something she doesn’t think is strange for a moment too long, until she notices that he hasn’t really moved – she reaches her hand out to touch his arm. To try to help steady him. He doesn’t even tense at the touch. There’s a strange, faraway look in his eyes, even as he bobs his head in agreement to Plutarch’s instructions.  
  
“What did you do him?” she asks, her voice more accusatory than it is grateful. Because this isn’t Peeta. Not the one that tried to kill her and certainly not the one that she knew in the quell.  
  
“Don’t worry. He’s not dangerous,” Plutarch says. “We just increased his dosage in preparation for the big day.”  
  
“Dosage?” she asks.  
  
“Just a bit more sedative,” Plutarch says. “Should be enough to get him through, but we have boosters handy. Just in case.”  
  
Peeta nods, but Katniss is positive he doesn’t fully comprehend what’s happening.  Plutarch is right. He’s not dangerous. But he isn’t himself, either. He isn’t even the skewed version of himself that came back from the Capitol. She’s not sure which would be the worst. Right now, this empty shell of Peeta, just barely filling out the suit that he had laughed in during the Victory Tour seems like the worst possibility.  
  
Plutarch continues, as if he hasn’t just admitted to _drugging_ Peeta. “And then, of course, you two will be expected to seal the union with a kiss.”  
  
A kiss. A kiss. She’ll kiss Peeta. She looks over at him and has to close her eyes. Maybe she can pretend that it’s the old Peeta. That she’s marrying someone who doesn’t have to be drugged to be halfway amiable around her. “Will you be able to do that, Peeta?” she asks.  
  
He turns to look at her. Winces, as if he’s just realizing that she’s there.  
  
“Will you?” she asks again.  
  
He nods, but she doesn’t think he’s very certain about it. It’s like they told him he had to.  
  
“Can he even speak?” she asks, turning to look at Plutarch again.  
  
“The medicine shouldn’t keep him from exchanging your vows,” Plutarch says dismissively. “Will it, boy?”  
  
Peeta flinches. “No, sir,” he says quietly. It’s just barely a mumble. The game maker gives him a sharp look. “No, sir,” he says again. “It won’t keep me from exchanging my . . . it won’t keep me from exchanging our vows.”  
  
Katniss’ chest aches. “Peeta,” she breathes, and he swallows hard.  
  
“He won’t be a problem,” Plutarch says again. “We made sure he won’t be a problem.”  
  
“What did you do to him?” Katniss asks again, but this time, she really doesn’t want to know the answer. She asks again anyway. “What the _hell_ did you do to him?” she asks, stepping forward. Much too close to him. “What did you –?”  
  
“Careful, careful,” Plutarch says. “Don’t want to trigger another attack.”  
  
She glowers at him, but takes a step backwards. Peeta’s condition doesn’t seem very stable. “What did you have to do to make sure he wouldn’t be a problem?”   
  
“We have our ways, Miss Everdeen,” Plutarch says with a smile that’s all too bright. Out of the corner of her eye, she swears she can see Peeta tremble.  
  
  
  
  
She allows herself to be ushered out. To be zipped into her dress. She’s covered in scars that they couldn’t find a clever way to cover. _Good_ , she thinks as Venia works on piling all of her hair on top of her head. _Maybe that will convince him that I’m human._  
  
Her face is coated with makeup. She didn’t realize that they had such a store of it. They tell her that she looks gorgeous. Prim and her mother get misty-eyed staring at her. She’s not sure that it’s for the right reasons.  
  
Just as for the wedding that they were meant to have in the Capitol, Haymitch is set to give her away. To walk her down the _aisle_ that they made between sets of metal folding chairs. There isn’t much room to work with. The wedding isn’t nearly as big as anything in the Capitol would be, but there are tons of cameras trained on them, all through the room. Peeta waits at the end of the short walk that he’ll have to make – she conveniently forgot to pick up high heels – head bowed, hands clasped one in front of the other. He still looks dazed. Like he doesn’t even really see her when the music picks up and he stares at her. Even as he plasters a smile onto his face that she’s sure comes from a signal someone is giving him.  
  
She hates this. Hates Plutarch and Coin. Hates Haymitch for signing off on this. Hates everyone who had anything to do with the fact that she has to marry a man who hates her so much that he has to be _drugged_ just to be somewhat pleasant around her. His fingers are stiff when they’re told to join hands. She pretends not to notice. They’ve held hands so many times before, but this isn’t like that. Not at all. He stiffens suddenly. Looks down at their clasped hands with a questioning look in his eyes. She realizes that he’s _shaking_ and wants badly to call out for them to stop the whole thing. But if she doesn’t comply, he’ll lose his immunity, and so will the others. But mostly Peeta. Mostly Peeta, who will be tried for treason. Who people still think is a traitor. And what better way to wipe his slate clean than to marry him off to the mockingjay?  
  
So, rather than calling it off, she gives his hands what she hopes is a reassuring squeeze.  
  
The room itself has been decorated with orange and red leaves from outside. She watches Peeta for a reaction, thinking that he’ll like the color, but if he notices, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he keeps his eyes – cloudy and wary – trained on her.  
  
“And do you, Peeta Mellark, take Katniss Everdeen to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the man asks.  
  
Peeta twitches.  
  
“To have and to hold. To honor and to cherish. In sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live.”  
  
Peeta looks at her blankly. “I do,” he says. His voice sounds like his. But she can’t be positive.  
  
“And do you, Katniss Everdeen, take Peeta Mellark to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the man asks. “To –”  
  
“I do,” Katniss says, and the crowd titters at what they must think is eagerness.  
  
 Too soon, it’s time for them to seal the union with a kiss. She tries not to tense in anticipation. She and Peeta have been far enough apart today, and it’s still seemed much too close. It seems stupid. Like suicide, maybe, to press her lips against his. But everyone is watching – and everyone in the country _will_ watch, at some point. So she closes the distance between them and kisses him. It’s surprising, how steady his lips are. How he kisses her _back,_ if not a little bit sluggishly. A side effect of the medicine, probably.  
  
She wonders if the doctors will want to keep him sedated constantly, now. If this is the Peeta that she married. Either way, he doesn’t condemn her with a half-hearted kiss. She ignores the _whoop_ ing from the crowd and focuses instead on how impossibly good it feels, having his lips on hers again.  
  
  
It’s over. Either too soon, or maybe _finally_. She’s not sure which one. She’s not sure of much anymore. And then the toasting song starts, and Peeta’s breath catches in his throat.  
  
“It’s okay,” she whispers.  
  
This is his fault, really. She wonders if he knows that. That they would have gotten away just fine without a toasting if he hadn’t told everyone about it in the Capitol. Plutarch says that their story is that they never got the chance to celebrate with their family and friends. So it doesn’t matter that they’ve already done this. Though, of course, they haven’t. She wishes that they had. That the story Peeta told everyone during the interview was true. She finds herself, as Caesar said, thinking that maybe a little bit of time together would have been better than none at all.  
  
“We can’t have a fire,” she explains when Peeta’s eyes fall on the cubes of somewhat stale bread that have already been toasted. “Not here. Not this far underground. It’s too dangerous.”  
  
Peeta nods.  
  
She pretends not to notice the way that Peeta’s hands shake when he brings the bite to her lips. Tries to look like a girl madly in love with him. He hesitates before he bites the piece she has to offer him. She’s not sure what he thinks. Does he fear that she could have poisoned it?

  
  
Then the single fiddler who made it out of 12 with his instrument starts to play a song that makes everyone’s head turn.  
  
“Do you remember it?” Katniss asks. She can sense that the cameras are on them, and it seems like they should be whispering sweet nothings or doing anything that makes them look like more than just strangers. “We shouldn’t miss the chance to let him see us dancing,” she murmurs.  
  
He nods. She wonders if the only words he’ll grace her with today are _I do._ They have to look like they’re in love. As if the hijacking failed. They join the lineup, not right beside each other but not so far that it might raise a concern. Katniss’ arm links with Prim and they start to dance. It’s amazing, the way the dancing transforms everyone. The people from twelve are more than happy to teach the steps to the people from thirteen. The crowd forms a giant, spinning circle and people thrust first Katniss and then Peeta to the center of it.  
  
His smile is almost convincing when he offers her his hand. They’re close while they dance. Like muscle memory, after the Victory Tour. But he’s more rigid than he was then. Unwilling to look away from her. She’s relieved when it’s over, even if that means that she ends up face to face with the cake that she didn’t even realize he was making. It’s gorgeous. Huge and white, filled with all sorts of decorations, daisies and lillies, but – maybe most notably – with a few katniss flowers. She turns to look at him, questioning, and he refuses to meet her eyes. He looks almost shy.  
  
“It was part of my therapy,” he mutters. “They said it was a success.”  
  
“It’s beautiful,” she says.  
  
He nods. The wedding lasts a while longer, until midnight at least. He doesn’t speak again, though she notices his gaze raking up and down her body. As if he’s trying to make sense of her. She looks down at her dress, a million regrets coursing through her. Why didn’t she pick the pretty orange frock from District Eleven?  
  
“Green dress,” he points out. “Thought brides are meant to wear white.”  
  
“I didn’t have many options,” she says.  
  
“Figures,” he mutters. “You don’t look much like a bride, though. Not in that green.”  
  
She doesn’t feel much like a bride, either.  
  
“You’re not very big, are you?” he continues when they’re allowed to leave. They’re only in the hallway, and she stops in her tracks. “Or particularly pretty?”  
  
“Well. You’re looked better,” she says, even though she knows he’s been through hell and back. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to a girl on her wedding day.”  
  
He laughs. “And not even remotely nice. To say that to me after all I’ve been through.”  
  
“We’ve all been through a lot,” she says. And it’s as if she can see the medicine wearing off. Can see the way his eyes narrow at her. The way he steps forward, getting much too close. One of the doctors grabs him by his jacket.  
  
“Okay. Time for bed,” the man says.  
  
They’re going to throw them into a room together, aren’t they? Dread courses through her.  
  
“Mrs. Mellark, you two will eat breakfast together in the morning in his hospital room,” the man continues. “I assume I don’t have to tell you that you’re expected to behave as though you’ve had a productive wedding night?”  
  
She shakes her head.  
  
“Very well. Come on, Mr. Mellark. Let’s get you some rest.”


End file.
